Matching
by RStiltskinned
Summary: Alternate ALW: Instead of dressing as Red Death, the Phantom dresses to match Christine, who does not recognise him at the masked ball. But when he asks for a dance, she has the strangest sense of déjà vu ... (one-shot, tumblr prompt)


_Alternate ALW: Instead of coming to the Bal Masque as Red Death, Erik dresses to match Christine. Inspired by an artwork by cocokat - look her up on deviantARt and tumblr. (Note: I changed the colour and design of Erik's mask because Christine would have immediately recognised him with his normal white half-mask.)_

_The prompt was "Christine and Erik dance" by princeofbadassery on tumblr._

It was a magnificent ball, it really was. Thousands of candles filled the Opera Populaire with light; hundreds of guest milled about, their faces hidden by masks. It was a night of celebration; the air was filled with animated chatter and laughter which at times almost seemed to drown out the music; ladies in brightly coloured gowns danced with men who for once had forgone their usual white-and-black evening attire and were as colourful as their female companions.

Yes, it was truly a splendid Bal Masque, and yet Christine could not bring herself to enjoy it. She had looked forward to it initially; it had been so much fun when Raoul had taken her out to look at costumes. He had bought a very extravagant pink-and-purple gown for her, covered with silver stars, and a tiara and silver mask to match.

"You look like a princess of the stars, Little Lotte!" he had laughed, and she had laughed with him, for once carefree and simply happy.

But now, Christine was filled with dread. Not only was she going to have to face the crowds (which included the ever-hateful Carlotta), something which she had avoided since the chandelier incident – the rumours about her being the "opera ghost's" paramour had spread like wildfire among the gossip-hungry demimonde – but Christine was also afraid that _he_ might be here.

How could he not be? It was "his" opera house after all, as he had told her. And a masked ball was surely an occasion that a man who perpetually covered his face would not miss.

Raoul still did not believe that the Phantom – her Angel – truly existed. He waved of her fears as bad dreams and silly fantasies. The managers had managed to convince the public that both Buquet's death and the chandelier crash had been unfortunate accidents, and Raoul apparently had chosen to stick with that explanation as well. It had also been difficult for Christine to persuade Raoul to keep their engagement a secret for the time being; in the end, she had reasoned that is was best to wait until the scandal of the Il Muto disaster had died down; and after all, she was a chorus girl and he a nobleman, so it was probably better to be as subtle as possible anyway…And so, for six months now, she had been wearing her engagement ring on a chain around her neck.

At first, Raoul had agreed, but now that six months had passed, he argued that the scandal was yesterday's news; and as for their different places within society, well, he did not care. "Christine, I love you," he had told her, holding her hands in his, his blue eyes full of sincerity. "I want to spend my life with you and I don't care what other people say."

Christine glanced at Raoul now, who looked as handsome as ever in his Hussar uniform. She sighed. She loved Raoul with all her heart, but she wished he would not treat her like a child and take her a bit more seriously. She simply was not "Little Lotte" anymore, even though she wished she could simply turn into that carefree little girl once more. This was one of the reasons why she enjoyed being with Raoul so much; in his company, she could forget about ghosts and angels and divas that treated her like garbage and could finally just _live_.

Raoul met her gaze and frowned. "You look so worried, Christine…do you still fear that the Phantom will come?" he asked with a teasing smile. Christine tried to look cross with him, but it was hard to do so when he looked so utterly dashing. She smiled back at him and gently rested her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Raoul. The room is so hot and crowded that it makes me feel a little dizzy. Could you be a dear and perhaps bring me a flute of champagne? I am sure it would steady my nerves." In truth, Christine only wished to have a moment to herself. She needed time to think. "Of course, my darling. I'll be right back." He pressed a quick kiss to her hand and then began to push his way through the crowd to fulfil her request.

Christine retreated to the very outskirts of the dance floor and managed to find a quiet corner behind a pillar. She took a deep breath and leaned against the cool stone.

Would he come? Was he perhaps already here? In a room full of masked people, he could have been anywhere, and the idea that the Phantom might be here this very moment sent nervous shivers down her back.

Phantom. She had never referred to him as such until she had seen him kill. Even after she had found out that he was not an angel, even after she had seen his horrifying face, he had still been her maestro. Not an angel – a man! It had been a great shock indeed to have her illusions shattered in such a harsh manner. She wondered what would have happened if she had never pulled of his mask; he would have still remained a man, but without having seen his face – and more importantly, without having to have experienced his terrible anger – who knew how their relationship might have progressed then? But now, Christine could only see a murderer.

And yet, she could not bring herself to hate him. He had given her back her voice, after all; he had listened to her worries and tears. The fact that he had pretended to be an angel did not change that. As much as Christine was angered by the fact that he had deceived and manipulated her in this manner, she could also understand why her maestro had chosen to approach her in that way; she doubted that she would have trusted a masked stranger who offered her voice lessons free of charge.

She felt anger against her maestro, but also grief at his dark fate and something else that she could (and did not want) to name. That time before she had unmasked him and shattered is masterful illusion, when the only thing that had mattered was his divine voice, leading her and making her feel things she had never even dreamed of…

Christine's little daydream was suddenly interrupted by a deep, male voice.

"Good evening, mademoiselle. Forgive me for approaching you so directly, but it seems we match." Christine looked up to find herself next to a tall gentleman. He was right; they did match. He wore a formal suit and a most impressive cape made of shimmering black silk. The inside was dark purple, and Christine could just make out the tiny silver stars embroidered on the expensive fabric. Around his shoulders there were more stars, as were there on the underside of his black felt hat, which also sported a large display of magenta-coloured feathers. His mask was comparatively simple; it was black and covered almost all of his face except for a part of his bottom jaw.

The stranger extended a gloved hand to lightly grasp Christine's – who had already held it out almost like a reflex - and bowed his head over it, stopping only millimetres above her skin. She could feel his warm breath tickling her and blushed. The man stood upright again and mustered Christine. "You look enchanting, mademoiselle, if I may say so. May I ask for the next dance?" His voice made her body tingle in a familiar way, and for one second, she almost thought he sounded like…but no, it couldn't be.

"I-I'm sorry, monsieur. I am flattered, but I am here with an escort who has just gone to get me something to drink, and it would be terribly rude of me to run off and dance with another man instead of waiting for him." Christine stammered. The man gave a throaty chuckle and took a step closer to her; as if driven by a strange power, she took a step back.

"I think your escort will forgive you, mademoiselle; I am sure no man could ever bear a grudge against such an enchanting creature as you." And with that, he offered his hand to her.

Christine bit her lip; Raoul was nowhere to be seen and she supposed one dance could do no harm; she briefly thought of what the people might say if they saw her dancing with a man in a costume matching hers – matching costumes usually signified some form of intimate relationship. In fact, Raoul had at first wanted to buy an outfit similar to the one this stranger now wore. She supposed the man must have bought it in the same shop as them.

He was still waiting for her response, and after a moment of hesitation, Christine took his hand and let him lead her onto the dance floor. The orchestra was playing a waltz, and the stranger spun Christine about in slow, elegant circles; he was a marvellous dancer, moving with unhurried grace, sleek and powerful like a cat. They made quite the pair, the dark, imposing figure in the black cloak and the ethereal beauty in pink and silver. The man was of slender build and quite tall, Christine's head barely reached his shoulder. She studied what little she could see of her partner's face; his visible bottom lip seemed unusually plump for a man's face; and the eyes that gazed down at her through the holes in the mask were dark – almost black even.

"You are a very good dancer, monsieur," Christine remarked nervously just as they waltzed their way past Monsieur Andre, who was dancing – or at least attempting to do so – with none other than La Carlotta, who spied Christine and gave her a dirty look that made her flinch a little.

"I can only return the compliment, mademoiselle; you move with such beautiful grace." Again, his voice had a physical reaction on Christine; she shivered and looked into his eyes again.

Black eyes.

A costume to match hers.

And that voice…

Suddenly, somebody bumped into them, and the stranger's mask shifted a little; and Christine caught a brief glimpse of a twisted upper lip.

She gasped. It was him! It was the Phantom!

"You – it is you! Oh my God….!"

His eyes flashed with anger; he gripped her arm and swiftly led her away from the dancers and back again behind the pillar where he had first found her. Christine was too shocked to react; she simply stared at him in surprise, hundreds of emotions fighting for dominance inside her conflicted heart. When they were hidden from view, he let go of her, and Christine at last found her voice again.

"How – how dare you! If I had known – I would never have – I…!"

He sighed. "You would not have talked to me, let alone danced with me. In fact, you probably would have screamed and run from me. That seems to be a pattern with us, does it not?" he snapped. Christine was taken aback for one moment, but quickly recovered and shot right back.

"Don't you dare make this about you! You deceived me, used my father's story to manipulate me and treated me as if I were your possession! You made it look as if I had a part in your plots, thereby ruining my reputation! You – you…" Christine had worked herself into a rage now. "You murdered Buquet! You dropped the chandelier, for God's sake! And yet, you dare to approach me now and attempt to deceive me again! Tell me, _angel_," she spat, "what would you have done if I had not noticed your little charade? Would you have abducted me again? Locked me away someplace where I can never escape? I-I…What do you want from me?" The last part came out as a sob. The months of nightmares had taken its toll on Christine, and it was beginning to show; tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"I don't even know your name," she said, sounding lost. Her anger had passed and left her exhausted and weak. She tiredly looked at him, her eyes lacking their usual spark, and was surprised to see that his eyes no longer held the cold glare they had before. If anything, he looked…almost guilty.

"Christine;" he breathed. "Christine…"

For a moment, there was awkward silence between them. Then, her maestro cleared his throat and spoke to her.

"I am Erik."

She stared at him in surprise. Erik. The phantom, her angel, was simply Erik. Knowing his name suddenly made him more human, more tangible; and for a moment, she imagined what it might have been like if Erik had approached her in a more conventional manner. Would she perhaps have befriended him after all? They shared a passion for music, and he, despite his sometimes overly strict methods, had been a great teacher to her.

"Erik…," she whispered. There was a sudden vulnerability in his eyes, as if by giving her his name he had once and for all exposed himself as being a mortal man of flesh and blood and now feared that she would destroy him. He took one hesitant step towards her. This time, she stayed where she was.

"Please believe me when I say that I never meant to harm you, Christine. I-I…" He faltered. "When I heard you sing, I thought only of the glorious instrument that I could shape your voice into if I was given the chance. But how could I approach you? I, a strange man who wears a mask to hide his monstrous face? But then I overheard you telling little Giry about the Angel of Music one day, and I…"He broke off and averted his gaze from her. "I longed only to teach you, nothing more than that. But then I saw you with that fop and I realised that you were more to me than a pupil. In fact, I'd known for a long time; seeing you with de Chagny just made me admit it to myself."

Christine stared at him with wide eyes. Thousands of questions were on her mind, but she remained silent.

"I am yours, Christine. Yours to love, and yours to command. I cannot help but love you."

Christine blinked quickly. "But Buquet...the chandelier…why, Erik?"

Erik sighed and fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves. "Buquet was a pig, and you know it. As for the chandelier…these two managers…and their precious patron," his voice was laced with venom at the mention of Raoul, "had better learn their place. This is my opera house, and I alone shall decide who sings upon its stage!" His eyes were full of anger again. He came even closer, and Christine gulped. Erik's eyes suddenly dropped to her chest, and Christine froze.

_The ring. He had seen the ring_.

Erik's eyes burned with hatred. His hand shot up and grasped the ring; with a sharp tug, he ripped it from her. Christine gave a small cry of protest and fear. Without warning, Erik brought up both of his arms and pinned her to the stone column. His face came so close to hers that she could feel his breath. She shivered in response.

_"I gave you your voice. I gave you my music,"_ he hissed into her ear. Then his voice dropped an octave; her body showed the strangest response to this; she felt a warm, tingling sensation in her stomach that was strangely pleasant.

"I have finished my opera, you know," he purred. "Don Juan Triumphant is complete, and I shall make sure that the managers will put it on stage. And you, my dear, you shall have the leading role. You shall be Aminta."

Christine was shaking now. "I don't want it," she whispered. "I won't sing."

Erik let out a dark chuckle. "Oh, but you will, my dear. Trust me, you will. You'll _want _to." His mouth was now dangerously close to her neck, and Christine felt certain that he could sense her hammering pulse. His hands hand left the column and traced along her waist. Christine gasped – both in outrage and because of the tingling sensation in her stomach grew stronger.

Suddenly, his hands and mouth were gone. He smirked at her.

"Then again, Aminta is meant to be seductive and alluring. Judging by the way you just froze, I have the feeling that I may have been wrong to give you the role. Maybe I should cast Carlotta instead," he mocked her.

Christine's mouth fell open in indignation. How dare he! That utter…! First the whole business of manipulating her, and now this….!

Christine glared at Erik. "Fine! You know what? Do whatever you please! Threaten the managers, drop chandeliers; but do not think for one moment, monsieur, that you can corrupt my mind once again! Carlotta can have the role for all that I care! And now, monsieur, I shall go and look for my _fiancé_. Good day!"

And with that, Christine tried to push her way past Erik and go to look for Raoul, but Erik stopped her.

"Christine, please…please wait."

She stopped in her tracks, but did to turn to look at him.

"Forgive me. I-I do not have much experience in dealing with other people – for obvious reasons. I did not wish to insult you – I – oh please promise me you'll sing in my opera. You are the only one who can play the part of Aminta. I wrote it for you, with your voice in mind."

Christine's anger subsided a little. She gave him a curt nod as a sign that he should continue.

"I am truly sorry for deceiving you the way I did. I did not mean to harm you or frighten you – on the contrary, this seemed to me the only way that I could approach you _without_ frightening you. I love you, Christine."

Christine drew a shaky breath; there were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, to her angel, to Erik, this poor, strange, man whose heart was capable of hating and loving so passionately. But in the end, she simply blurted out,

"Where did you find a costume to match mine? How did you even know what I would be wearing?"

Erik gave a weak laugh. "I…I followed you and the boy when you went to buy the dress," he admitted sheepishly.

"Oh," came her startled reply. "I see." She supposed she should have guessed as much. Strangely enough, she couldn't bring herself to be angry about the fact that Erik had been secretly following her; rather she felt a sense of relief that her paranoia of the past few weeks had not been without reason; she had started to fear that she was going mad after all.

"So…will you sing? Will you be Aminta?" Erik's voice was full of tentative hope.

Christine hesitated for a moment. Then, still with her back to him, she made her decision.

"I'll consider it, Erik. I promise I will."

She heard him release his breath and the rustle of fabric and turned to face him – but he was gone! Christine circled around the entire column and searched the crowd with her eyes – but he had vanished.

Suddenly, she felt somebody touch her arm and jumped. She looked up and directly into Raoul's eyes.

"Christine, my dear, are you alright? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Christine let out a nervous giggle at that and took the champagne flute that Raoul offered her. After taking a small sip to steady her nerves, she turned to face him.

"I'm quite alright, my love. In fact I feel…oddly relieved. As if a storm had passed and the air is fresh and clean," she told him Raoul beamed down at her. "See, my darling, I told you a bit of entertainment would help ease your troubled mind. Does the future still seem bleak to you now?"

She leaned against his shoulder and gave him a gentle smile. "No Raoul…for the first time in a long time, I feel like there is hope after all."

Maybe coming to the masked ball hadn't been such a bad idea after all.


End file.
